Peak of Eternal Light
by bittergrapes
Summary: Sally is the world's only Supernatural Consultant, Scotland Yard's very own paranormal investigator. Juggling an active academic career, a glorified desk job, and motherhood, she's craving the excitement that only comes from hunting down vampires
1. Chapter 1

_Peak of Eternal Light (prop. n): A point in the solar system that is eternally bathed in sunlight, due to the celestial body's slight rotational tilt and position in relation to the sun as well as the altitude of the point._

A heavy stack of mail landed with a thump on Sally's desk, waking her abruptly from her mid-afternoon power nap. Her head jolted up, and she glared, wild-eyed, at Lestrade's tired visage.

"Those came in for you from Cornwall. Reports of a sea monster terrorizing the locals," he remarked casually. "Thought you could use a pick-me-up." The DI watched sympathetically as she scraped her fingers through her hair and grabbed at the papers. "Arthur giving you trouble again?"

At the mention of her seven year-old son, she winced. "He's been sick with a fever all damn week. I'd say he's fucking with me, but the poor boy can't even sleep at night, he's burning up. The medicine he's got is helping a bit, but not anywhere near fast enough for me. Girl's gotta get her beauty rest, you know." She huffed a little, flipping through the papers. "About time for something to show up."

Lestrade smirked. "You're telling me. I thought you were going to tear Sherlock's head off at the last crime scene."

She threw the papers down, snorting at him. "He struts around like he owns the damn place, Greg! I have half a mind to put his ass in line, tell him he's not the only consultant that works for Scotland Yard. And if he makes one more crack about me and Anderson, I will end him, I swear."

The silver-haired Di rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Yes, I know. Speaking of that, you're on call with him tonight. 'S that alright?"

"Yeah. H's on Arthur Duty tonight so I can manage." She turned back to the reports, noting the similarities in description. Reaching to her ear, she pulled a pen from its bridge and began marking down her insights in the margins.

"Good. Put that Oxford degree of yours to work, yeah?" He reached out to pat her shoulder, and she grinned, shooing him away.

Her phone buzzed a few minutes later, pulling her out of theorizing about the Cornish sea monster, and she picked it up, thumbing through to the new message.

_Arthur's asking for you. –H_

A warm flush of maternal love soaked her through to the bones. Despite spending all night up with her whining, feverish child, knowing that he was thinking of her brought a deep sense of contentment that nothing else reached: not searching for the Moñái in Paraguay, not holding a brick-bedecked skull of a possible vampire in her hands in Venice, not the reams of papers she had published in various paranormal journals. And hearing it from her partner – imaging the two of them lounging on her couch in their pyjamas and watching Lord of the Rings, as they did each time Arthur came down with the flu – sweetened the thought even more.

_Tell him I'll be home late but I'll make him my special recipe chicken soup. –S_

_Will do. You got a package from Pembrokeshire today: that man who you helped exorcise a ghost sent you a copy of Waldo William's works. In Welsh. –H_

She smiled, shaking her head. It hadn't even been a ghost, just a bought of temporal feedback from the 1740's. The trip had been a bit of a waste of time; she'd merely advised him to wait it out and keep a radio running with white noise in case it turned out to be an actual spirit, but the trip to the Welsh coast had been a nice break from the constant tedium of London.

For such a large city, there was very little work for the world's only supernatural consultant; most of the crimes committed were of the boring human variety. The past seven years of her career had involved resolving the occasional paranormal outbreak, completely overhauling Scotland Yard's organizational system, and researching folklore with the Institute of Social and Cultural Anthropology at her alma mater, Oxford University. Any interruption of the intellectual stagnation that ensued from no actual cases to pursue was deeply welcome.

At this point, she wondered if all the ghosts and demons had left London for greener pastures; America, perhaps, anywhere more awful than the sanitized streets of the steadily gentrified city.

_We could get Rosetta Stone for Arthur, maybe. Then he can read about his namesake in two languages instead of just one. –S_

_Next thing you know you'll be teaching him Old English ;) –H_

Sally hummed softly as she pulled the Cornish report back toward her, setting her pen down and idly doodling on the surface. Likely enough, this 'sea monster' was another disappointing fluke: a tangle of seaweed, perhaps, or an especially large eel. Probably not a cryptid by any means. Still, it was nice to imagine that there was still work for her beyond festering in her tiny particleboard office and working through the backlog of missing persons reports in the vaults.

Opening ancient crypts and unearthing strange skeletons was good for a laugh, but she missed the early days of her career, where she chased after pale-skinned vampires in the forests of Ireland – her specialty – only ten years ago. There'd been no trace of anything for nearly three years now, certainly not anything worthy of her attention, so she kept moldering at Scotland Yard, kept accompanying Lestrade to crime scenes and hoping for even a whisper of something supernatural, something exciting, something new.

_Don't tempt me, babe. Have you gotten to the Mines of Moria yet? He always gets nervous at that part. –S_

There was a knock at her flimsy door, and she looked up, pushing back her tangle of tiny curls. "C'min!" she called, and the door opened slowly, an undulating 'oooooh!' emanating from behind its cheap surface. She rolled her eyes, finally pushing aside her papers and standing up.

"Anderson, it's not going to get any funnier the longer you keep doing it."

"One day it will!" The door finally flung all the way open to reveal the forensics expert, dressed smartly in a black sweater and matching trousers.

"Right, same as one day¸ Lestrade's attempt to get us to 'sympathize with our fellow officers' by sending detectives out on patrol will actually build morale."

The chestnut-haired officer laughed with her as she gathered her purse. He crooked his arm and bent slightly at the knee, pantomiming chivalry. "M'lady?"

"Oh, sod off," she responded playfully, shoving his arm aside. "Better not let my partner see you doing that!"

"She won't care and you know it."

"She's more man than you anyway," Sally shot back affectionately, ducking her head as they went through an especially low doorway on their way to the garage.

_Babe, gotta go. Love you. Let me know if anything changes re:Arthur. –S_

Anderson sighed, shrugging his shoulders. "Probably." He opened the passenger door for her, pretending to bow again, and she dunked his head with her hand before getting in, slamming the door shut and buckling up while he strolled over to the driver's seat.

_Absolutely. Love you too. Stay safe. –H_

The engine started with a satisfying purr, and they began their monthly obligatory patrol, a measure started by Lestrade to "incite camaraderie with other police units over shared struggles". Anderson and Donovan had been a natural pair for the exercise, both being relative misfits in their respective positions, and they'd become fast friends in the five years they'd been patrolling once a month together. Lestrade's plan likely wasn't even legal – it certainly flew in the face of all the protocol they'd read about the investigative units of the police force – but it also broke the drudgery of being cooped up in her office studying cryptozoological reports, so Donovan was content to let her superior's farce go unreported. Besides, it gave her time to take the piss out of Anderson for his poor paintball skills.

"You were shite last week," she laughed, slugging him in the arm playfully. "You were covered in her paint! Purple all over the damn place!"

"Yeah, and you looked like Cookie Monster, the amount of blue I tagged you with," he retorted, making a sharp turn.

"Oi, don't sta-STOP!"

The patrol car screeched to a stop, Sally jumping out before the wheels were done spinning. Anderson followed more slowly, pocketing the keys while his partner sprinted toward a prone figure on the ground.

The man was clearly dead; blood streamed from his nose, mixing with a small puddle of motor oil on the ground and staining his shirt a cherry red. His eyes were glazed over, the pupils entirely blown, and his face remained frozen in an expression of pure terror.

Sally hissed suddenly, scrabbling in her purse for gloves, and she looked up to Anderson, jabbing at the corpse's neck. "Look."

The forensic specialist crouched down, peering closely at the semicircle of pricks in the pallid flesh. "What the hell – are those human?"

His companion smiled sadly, pulling out a collection swab and carefully dabbing at the oozing blood. "Not quite, but close."

Anderson nodded, comprehension spreading across his face. "Ohhh. This is right up your alley, innit?"

"I'm afraid so." Straightening, she made a 'gimme' gesture toward the man, who handed over his walkie-talkie. "Vampire." As she clicked open the channel and relayed the information to Lestrade, she shot a look back to the body on the ground, cooling quickly in the chilly London night. "Greg. Got ourselves a vampire. Gotta love those; always something to look forward to."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

A light rain threw spiderwebs of shadow over the brickwork of the alleyway, bathing Anderson in an eerie glow as he crouched beside the body, taking its temperature and checking for partial rigor mortis.

"Cause of death not clear, but it definitely wasn't exsanguinations or blunt force trauma. He definitely has a majority of his blood, as you can see by the postmortem stain already occurring. Judging by the algor mortis, I'd say this man has been dead for about four hours," he announced, carefully bringing the corpse's hand back to the pavement.

"So they have four hours' head start on us – damn! They could be past Cardiff by now, and from there back to Ireland. I don't think we can catch them this time, but this poor sod," she gestured to the body, "is invaluable right now."

"How so?"

"I have a tentative theory about the vampires, but I need more data from wild-types: that is, those who fail to be converted to vampirism. Examining the saliva from the wound and the deceased's blood will help me figure out why this man died instead of turning into a vampire."

Anderson nodded. "Care to share your hypothesis?"

"Yes –"

"What are we looking at, Lestrade?" A booming baritone interrupted Sally's explanation, and its owner followed with a swish of his wool coat. Sherlock Holmes brusquely swept past the supernatural consultant and the forensics officer, kneeling beside the body and snapping on a pair of gloves.

"Why are _you_ here?" Sally demanded, her brows shooting into her mess of black curls as she surveyed Sherlock busily checking the corpse's fingers. John ambled up with an apologetic smile and stood behind his partner.

"I called them in. Never hurts to have a second opinion." Lestrade arrived, his hands jammed deep in his pockets against the intermittent gusts of wind, and surveyed the scene with a low whistle. "I'd hate to be him."

"A second opinion hurts when it's bound to be wrong."

"Sally, Sally, Sally. Taking the night off from Anderson's bedroom?"

"Don't even start, Sherlock," Sally hissed, her fingers clenching around the hem of her coat, but the consulting detective merely offered an indulgent smile, his eyes glinting in the dark.

"Why are you even here, Donovan? Surely nothing needs scrubbing, and Anderson isn't in need of your services at the moment."

"Goddamnit, Sherlock, just one more word and I'll-"

"Both of you, stop," John and Lestrade interjected simultaneously, and an awkward silence descended as the five professionals surveyed one another in the dim blue glow of the patrol car lights.

"Sally is here because she and I were on patrol tonight when we came across the victim." Anderson's voice was frosty, laced with hateful restraint, and he shot a venomous glare at both Sherlock and John. "And for the last time, Donovan and I are nothing but friends. Both of us are happily married, and she doesn't exactly have my type in mind."

Sherlock's head shot up from its position beside the corpse's throat. "You're married?" he asked incredulously, examining Sally intently.

The consultant pulled her wedding ring, suspended from a silver chain, from underneath her jacket, dangling it in front of the man's face. "Yes, you dimwit. Been married for years now, and I have a seven year-old son. I've never even dreamed of cheating on my partner. Is that enough _domesticity_ to prove my innocence or should I have my spouse come testify for you?"

"_You have a son?_"

Sally huffed, exasperated, and pulled out her wallet to show a picture of her smiling son. "Before you ask, yes, he's adopted. 'S name's Arthur. He's a lovely kid, loves mythology, just like his mum." She barely contained a proud grin before setting her sights back on the corpse. "Now that we've proved I'm not a philanderer, can you kindly shove off my crime scene?"

"Sally, I invited him for a reason." Lestrade's gruff voice interjected before another verbal altercation ensued. "You can both work on the case – it's not as if there's not enough to go around."

John stepped back as Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, pompously adjusting his scarf and straightening his coat on his shoulders. "I know exactly occurred here."

"We're all waiting," Anderson snorted.

"I've encountered a case nearly identical to this one, a few years ago in Sussex. A man had remarried a Peruvian woman; he had a son from a prior relationship, and the new wife soon bore him another. Soon after the husband found his wife sucking the blood of their child and grew alarmed, thinking she had lost her mind and was out to kill their son.

"I hypothesized that it was the wife's attempt to save her son from some sort of malaise brought onto him by the jealous stepson, and I was proved correct. The wife had brought native weapons with her from her homeland, including a set of arrows whose tips were dipped in a potent poison. The stepson had been poisoning his infant brother with the toxin from the arrows in order to frame his stepmother as a murderer and thus gain full access to his father's love and attention.

"The similarities are obvious: so-called 'vampirism', no clear motive for the injury, and mysterious wounds. Clearly he was killed by some sort of toxin, and someone attempted to flush it out by sucking on the wound, which is still a common misconception about venomous bites. Perhaps he was in contact with poisonous animals – tarantula, maybe, they're popular among youth as pets – drunk, playing around with it, it bit him, and a friend attempted to suck out the poison before realizing he was dead and fleeing the scene, fearing retribution." Sherlock finished his monologue with a flourish, smiling triumphantly.

"Yes, but who the hell would try to suck out the poison from a tarantula bite without calling for an ambulance?" As Sherlock was speaking, Sally murmured a prayer in Latin over the corpse, pulling a Charon's obol from her purse and pressing it into the man's palm. She now stood, her hands crossed over her chest, and scowled.

"Good Samaritan, though misguided."

"Who just _leaves a dead body in the alleyway_?"

"Bad Samaritan, though with good intentions."

A brief silence settled over the crime scene before Anderson and Donovan glanced at each other and burst out laughing, Sally nearly stepping on the body as she doubled over. Sherlock shot John a befuddled look, and the doctor merely shrugged helplessly, glancing from his partner to Lestrade with palpable unease.

"I've heard you spout off some pretty bullshit ideas, but Sherlock Holmes, this has to be the worst of them," Sally wheezed, catching her breath as her cackles died down. "First off, the man here has no sign of intoxication; Sniffer Dog here," she pointed to Anderson, who smirked, "would have been able to smell the alcohol on his breath when we first arrived, as would have I. There was none. Of course we need to wait for the tox screen but I'm certain he won't show any sign of impairment from alcohol. Second off, the bite marks look _nothing_ like any known tarantula – they're spaced much too far apart to be from a tarantula, much less one sold as a pet like you're suggesting. And most pet tarantulas are New World species, which wouldn't deliver a lethal bite to a human. Even on the off-chance that he happened to come across a wild tarantula that delivered a lethal dose of venom, _the marks don't match_. That by itself blows your entire hypothesis out of the water."

Sherlock reared his head back, affixing her with an icy stare as the three other men looked on. His pink lips were set in a thin line, his nostrils flared and eyes narrowed; a lesser human would quiver at the site, by Sally stared back, her dark eyes wide and unrelenting. They glared at one another for what seemed an eternity before Sherlock lowered his chin, raking his gaze across the victim once more.

"Then what do _you_ suggest?" the consulting detective finally spat.

"Vampire. _Real_ vampire."

John chuckled. "You have to be kidding me."

"Dr. Watson, I've been studying vampires for ten years. Believe it or not, I do more than send faxes for Lestrade; I just happen to have a … sluggish case intake. It's rare that my expertise is needed, but when it is, I know what I'm looking at. And this is, without a doubt, vampirism."

The consulting detective and doctor shared an amused glance. "I didn't realize you allowed crackpots on the police force, Lestrade," Sherlock purred.

"She's serious."

All traces of their grins flew from their faces, and John and Sherlock stared at the DI, shocked.

"That's why we keep her around, other than for her excellent organizational skills. Off-chance that this sort of thing crops up, we need her knowledge. Sally knows what she's doing."

"Then why did you bother calling me on?" Sherlock huffed angrily. "Waste of a perfectly good night, I could have been working on my mucosal necrosis study at Bart's."

Lestrade shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I figured it'd be good to have my two best minds working together on this case. You have the chemical knowledge to do analysis for Sally's samples, and Sally has the knowledge of cryptology necessary to figure out what the hell is going on here."

"Anderson can run the chemical analyses for me just fine, or I can ask my colleagues at Oxford," Sally shot back defensively.

"Anderson has his own work to do on other cases, and Sherlock has proven excellent at this sort of thing – the Carl Power case, remember."

With a sigh, Sally conceded, glancing up to fix Sherlock with a steely stare. "Fine. But it's still my case, and my word goes – regardless of what the hell you think."

Sherlock shot her a sarcastic smile. "Oh, of course, Donovan. Maybe we'll find that the victim's last meal was unicorn flank, and he rode a griffon to work this morning."

Before she could reply, Sally's phone buzzed, and she pulled it out, scowling.

_Arthur's fever has gone up – complaining of a headache and says his teeth hurt. –H_

"Just a handful of miseries tonight," she grumbled.

_We just got a case on, babe. Consulting Asshole's working on it with me – I won't be home til late. Can you keep A happy til then? Sorry to cop out. –S_

_Of course, that's what wives are for. Don't worry about it. I'll get home some lemon ice, he loves that. Try not to kill John or Sherlock. Love you –H_

_I'll keep their injuries non-lethal, promise. Love you too. –S_

"You can imagine whatever the hell you want, as long as you help me solve this," Sally spat. "We'll see how funny you think it is then."

"Oh, by all means. Wouldn't miss this for the world."


End file.
